


Sapling

by rannadylin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Hawke Family - Freeform, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/pseuds/rannadylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fenris/Hawke (and family!) story, featuring Metis, the gardener. Hawke's second child is about to be born; Metis commemorates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sapling

 

When the moment arrives, the signs are evident and all preparations are in place. The sapling arrived just in time, the night before, from a farm two miles out of Kirkwall; since last night its roots have been soaking. The weather is fair this afternoon; a bit cool, but sunny and dry, excellent for digging. And the midwife waits, three blocks away, for the signal to swoop in.

It begins just after lunch. Hawke sits, pushed away from the table, valiantly trying to balance wee Malcolm on a knee, having surrendered all other lap territory to her thoroughly swollen belly. The boy giggles and makes a game of it, pretending to slip down from her knee only to be caught in the Champion’s strong hands again, held secure in a loving, if very precarious, grip. One moment he is bouncing and chortling and Metis laughs along as his grandson’s antics draw a chuckle even from Fenris. The next, Malcolm slips suddenly to the floor, unharmed but startled, silenced mid-laughter to balance on his toes and look back up at his mother in surprise.

“Oh,” Hawke says, staring off into space. “ _Oh._ Fenris, I think it’s time.”

And then the plans prepared are put into motion: Hawke, bundled up to bed for her lying-in; Malcolm, delivered to Orana to be tucked into his own bed; Fenris, off like a bolt from Varric’s crossbow to fetch the midwife.

And Metis, seeing that everything is as it should be, waits by Hawke’s bedside, distracting her with anecdotes about Varania’s birth, till the midwife shows up to shoo all menfolk from the room.

Then there is nothing else to do but to wait, and to plant.

He chose the spot weeks ago, in the garden attached to Hawke’s estate. The flowers and herbs and vegetable patch have been in his care alone since the family returned to Kirkwall months ago; a decent enough yard it makes for this season, but he has plans for the expansions the next will bring, very detailed plans. It will go through dozens of variations, this garden, year by year, if he lives so long; but every version of it will focus around the row of trees he’s begun at the high end. The apple tree was the very first to go in, at Fenris’ request. The chestnut tree beside it is Hawke’s (there are few people in this world for whom he would have planted nuts, but in her garden it thrives). A few yards in front of these, a peach tree for Malcolm. And beside the peach tree, the spade awaits for the orchard’s newest member.

He digs the hole shallow, lest the sapling’s roots be smothered. As the earth yields to the spade, he remembers the orchard in Seheron, the day he dug this hole for Varania’s pomegranates. That tree had grown broad and strong since his daughter’s birth, heavy with fruit, alongside the orange tree he’d planted on the day Mara became his wife. They had been the chief of all the trees in his orchard. Perhaps they grew there still, long abandoned or now feeding new settlers. He did not like to think that the slavers might have set fire to his trees along with the buildings of the town.

The earth is ready now; he lowers the sapling into the space he has created, making room for new growth in his garden as they have made room in their hearts and home. Gently he showers the soil back in place, cradling the fragile roots, as blankets in Hawke’s chamber wait to cradle new life. He leaves a space around the trunk clear, so that the roots can breathe and grow strong, listening all the while for the cry at Hawke’s window that will signal the newborn’s first breath. At last he hauls water from the well, soaking the earth and the roots with its blessing, feeling his cheeks wet with anticipation and joy.

And then he places a hand on the slender young trunk, and calls to earth, to sun, to the tender life within. Life sings through the bark, through roots and cambium all the way to the tips of the fragile new branches. Not too much: time and nature will do the bulk of the work, but with the gardener’s magic a single tip buds, and blossoms, and the sweet cherry-scent brightens the air. Metis smiles, and pats the bark approvingly. And there, at Hawke’s window, the cry of life rings out on the breeze to mingle with the scent of spring.

He plucks the first blossom and makes his way inside, up the stairs, into the chamber. Fenris looks up at Metis’ approach and beams with relieved pride, the bundle in his arms still softly whimpering.

“She’s here,” Fenris whispers, holding the bundle up for Metis to see. “Mara.”

“In record time, compared to her brother,” adds a wry and weary Hawke, looking immensely pleased with herself, from the bed.

“Mara,” Metis greets the little one, tucking the flower behind her tiny round ear. “Welcome, little blossom.”


End file.
